by Dan Alatorre
She looked to the window. Camilla’s assistant walked across the lobby toward them. “Now, unless I miss my guess, that nice young woman is coming over here to tell us to return to the conference room. What are you going to do?”
* * * * *
Arriving at the site they’d settled on earlier—a small clearing at the end of a long dirt road—Elvis and his associates went about the second part of their interrogation. Janet Jackson opened the trunk and snapped a tube of smelling salts in half, holding it under the nose of their hostage. Clayman’s head jerked, then jerked again as he struggled to avoid inhaling the pungent fumes that brought him back to consciousness.
“Told you,” Janet Jackson said, leaning on the side of the car. “We should have clipped this goofball in the hotel room.”
“When you’re right, you’re right.” Elvis nodded, sighing. “Okay, let’s get to it. We have a conversation to finish.”
Janet and George grabbed Clayman by the arms and hauled him from the trunk. Dragging him around to the front of the car, the headlights would allow for additional illumination until the rising sun cut fully through the thick trees overhead. Clayman’s eyes rolled around for a moment, then he gagged and vomited down the front of his shirt.
Beyond the car, a lone cricket chirped in the chilly swamp.
Elvis grabbed Clayman by the hair and held his face up. “Time to come clean, little bird doggy. Your targets got away. You had a gun. Did you use your weapon?”
“I, uh . . .”
Elvis raised his gun and fired a shot into Clayman’s shoulder. The burst splattered red onto Clayman’s face and neck as he screamed in pain. He grabbed his shoulder and doubled over, pulling free of the grip of the men who held him. He rolled on the swampy ground, wet leaves sticking to his back and face.
“Pay attention,” Elvis said, grabbing his victim and setting him upright. “Are you awake now, bird dog? This is not the time for stalling. It’s a simple question, so you should be able to answer fast and without deliberation. What happened to your weapon?”
“The guy took it from me!” Clayman whimpered, blood spilling from his hand as he gripped his shoulder. “The guy with the scientist.”
“He hit you?”
“He, he . . .”
The second shot went past Clayman’s ear, clipping the lobe. A patch of dirt splattered a few feet behind him when the bullet hit it. Clayman shrieked, slapping a hand over his ear.
“Gotta work on your aim, Elvis.” George chuckled.
Elvis glared at George. “Shut up.” Turning his focus back to Clayman, Elvis grabbed his victim’s hair again and wrenched his head back. “Again, did he hit you?”
“No!”
“How did he get your gun?”
Clayman groaned, blood dropping through his fingers. “He surprised me and took it.”
Cocking the gun, Elvis put it to Clayman’s head. “I’m not hearing the ‘how’ part. How did you, a guy with a gun who was hired to watch the hallway, end up getting disarmed and letting the targets get away—but no shots were fired and there ain’t a mark on you?”
“He—he sucker punched me. Hit me in the gut!”
“Nope.” Elvis shook his head and stepped back, firing a round into Clayman’s thigh. “Wrong answer.”
Clayman rolled over onto the muddy ground again, holding his bleeding leg and crying in agony.
“I think you’re smart enough to know, this night only gets worse for you, little bird dog. See, you let your partner get attacked, but he got a concussion, so I can see why they got his gun. The waiter routine was lame, but whatever. It could have worked if there’d been competent people involved, but it’s done now. The gunman in the hallway, though, that scene doesn’t add up to me. Did the targets pay you off?”
“No.”
“Did they threaten your family?”
“No. I don’t have a family.”
“Good thing. I’d hate to have to break the bad news to them that their stupid, screw up, cowardly son and-or father and-or brother died in a swamp after disgracing himself.” He raised the gun again.
“No!” Clayman raised his hands to stop the bullets, turning his face away. “No! No!”
The two blasts from Elvis’ gun lit up the darkness in the swamp, like flash photography at a wedding reception. Chunks of red and tufts of hair splattered onto the wet oak leaves. Clayman splashed face-first onto the muddy edge of the swamp.
“Toss him in deeper.” Elvis tucked the gun into his belt. “So the gators will find him.”
“There’s no gators eating in weather this cold,” George said.
“Just get him in the water, George,” Elvis growled. “Or they’ll find two bodies.”
George hustled over to the body and dragged it through the muck.
Janet pulled the tarp from the trunk of the car, balling it up and tossing it into the murky swamp. “What now?”
“Now,” Elvis glanced at his watch. “We go tell the big boss at Angelus that we tied up his second loose end from the Peachtree Plaza hotel, discuss a fee to eliminate this scientist lady and her friend, and then get rid of this Greyhound joker.”
George waded out of the swamp, slapping mud from his hands. “By now the scientist is long gone from Georgia. They’re either in Florida or Minnesota.”
“And The Greyhound will be coming after them soon, if he’s not already.” Janet turned to Elvis. “It’s awful cold in Minnesota this time of year.”
“Yeah, it is.” Elvis spun the key ring on his finger as he walked to the car. “So I guess we’ll start in Florida.”
Chapter 20
Camilla’s assistant was cordial but firm. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Ms. Madison requests your presence in the conference room.”
“Okay.” DeShear sat on the edge of the desk, rubbing his chin. “We’ll be there in a second.”
“She’d like you to report now.” A smile tugged at the young lady’s lips. “I believe her exact words were, ‘If he resists, I’ll have the federal marshals shoot him and drag him to my meeting.’”
“Okay, let’s go.” DeShear stood. “That crew cut guy would probably do it.”
Most of the meeting went faster than DeShear expected. The Vice President was on and off in less than five minutes, asking to be kept up on the situation as things unfolded. The FBI and CIA asked very few questions, as did the federal marshal service. The Director of the IRS seemed to take it all in stride, as though this sort of thing happened every day.
The one person sweating bullets was Camilla—or she would have, if she were the type to sweat. Her poker face was par excellence, but keeping her hands under the table while she capped and uncapped her pen, that had been her “tell” going back more than two dozen years.
DeShear was glad he still knew her well enough to catch it. No doubt his pre-meeting antics had caused some of that stress, but it was now a lose-lose proposition to say anything about Lanaya’s arsonist activities to anyone.
He studied his client.
Do I believe her?
He was still tossing around his options when the person next to him stood and pushed in her chair. Others did the same. The wall screen went dark, and people filed out of the conference room. Cammy stood and gathered her notes.
Only Lanaya and DeShear remained seated, each staring silently across the table at the other. Her gaze appeared hopeful. His, he knew, did not.
“Seems like you two have some unfinished business,” Camilla said as she headed toward the door. “You can have the room for a few minutes, but we’ll be moving quickly now. Be ready to get in one of our vehicles and head to the airport on my signal.”
“Gotcha.” DeShear kept his eyes on his client. “I’ll be ready.”
Lanaya thanked Camilla for the clothing and the hospitality, then turned back to DeShear. She said nothing. The door clicked closed behind Camilla.
DeShear cleared his throat. “I’m not sure what happened at my place . . .”
�
�You know,” Lanaya said. “When I said I had a friend who looked similar enough to me that I could travel using her ID, you didn’t question it. Is it not much more likely that the people who are chasing us—who were only chasing me until I came to Tampa—that they found a similar-looking woman to be seen lurking around your apartment?”
“Why not kill me when I was inside, asleep?”
“You weren’t the target then,” Lanaya said. “I was. But they could definitely send a message once you agreed to meet me. To scare you away from the case. As it happens, you’re the type who doesn’t back down in the face of a bully. They misjudged you in that. And me.”
DeShear shook his head. “I don’t know . . .”
“Maybe there were too many people around that night, and the arsonist feared being spotted. Or they couldn’t get their lookalike to your apartment until the next morning. Does it matter? We still end up here, with the IRS getting ready to raid a genetics facility in Indonesia.” She lowered her voice. “And me, wondering what you’re going to do.”
He folded his arms. Across the lobby, Camilla exited her office, shoving an earpiece under her hair and crossing the lobby toward the conference room.
Lanaya leaned forward. “Hamilton—”
“I don’t think you’re the arson type.” He got up from his chair. “You’re too nervous. You’d have been a wreck if you burned my place and then went back with me. And even if I didn’t believe you, if the fire marshal and police can subjugate their concerns for the greater good, who am I to question it?”
Lanaya smiled. “Thank you, Hamilton.”
The conference room door banged open. “They will serve demand letters on Angelus Genetics tonight at 4:55 P. M.” Camilla raised her sleeve to her face, cupping a small microphone in her palm. “Ready all units, we are go. We need to be rolling in ten minutes. Reply with your affirmative and meet me downstairs in the parking lot. The transports are assembling now.”
* * * * *
When the police cruiser turned south onto Bayshore Boulevard and the convoy of Chevy Suburbans followed, DeShear spoke up. “This isn’t the way to Tampa International Airport.”
“That’s because we are headed to the MacDill Air Force Base airport,” Camilla replied from the front passenger seat. “We’re going to hop on a couple of Cessna Citation X’s, and get our butts to the rally point before anyone even knows we’re gone.”
“We’re flying in Cessnas? Aren’t those a little . . .” He frowned, holding his hands close together.
“Don’t think single engine prop plane.” She held her hands far apart. “Think private jets of the rich and famous—and drug runners. Those babies can reach speeds close to Mach one, and have been refitted to carry twenty passengers.”
The Suburban swerved to pass a slower vehicle, the flashing blue lights of the squad car in front of them leading the way. Cars eased to the right lane as the convoy passed. DeShear grabbed the handle over the window to steady himself when the big vehicle bounced around. “What are the planes refitted from?”
Camilla waved a hand. “We just add seats. Drug dealers like to travel in comfort and style. We can confiscate any asset used in a drug deal, including a forty-million-dollar private jet.”
“And you get to keep them?”
“Yeah.” She adjusted her sunglasses. “The IRS gets to do all kinds of stuff nobody knows about. Flying from MacDill allows fewer eyeballs on us as we depart, too. Hold on.” She lifted the hand mic to her face. “All units, this is Bureau Chief Madison. We have approval to enter the base through the Bayshore Gate. Our escort will meet us there and take us to the airfield. We are cleared for immediate departure.”
“It’s over ten thousand miles to the Indonesia facility,” Lanaya said.
“On these planes, it’ll go by in about ten hours,” Camilla said. “Including pit stops in San Diego and Hawaii. The bulk of the agents and marshals are following in a KC-135, but we’ll have the recon team with us.”
DeShear nodded. “How many people are we bringing?”
“I can’t discuss operational details, but let’s say it’s enough to get the job done. Twice, probably. But it’s a coordinated raid. Everybody storms the Bastille at zero hour, eastern standard time.” Camilla rubbed her hands together. “Those executives will be having heart attacks when they start getting phone calls about IRS agents busting into every facility they own all over the world.” She reached into the black canvas bag at her feet and pulled out a holstered gun, placing it in her lap. “Man, I love my job.”
Chapter 21
The relatively small size of the jet, as compared to normal airline jets, belied its prowess. The Cessna Citation X had a sleek exterior and a luxurious interior. Premium leather was in abundance, and the row of bench seats the IRS installed allowed for nearly double the number of passengers the plane originally held.
“I don’t know if it’s worth forty million dollars,” DeShear said as he moved to the rear of the cabin and took a seat. “But it’s impressing the heck out of me right now.”
Lanaya made her way down the aisle, sitting next to DeShear. She spoke loud enough for the other passengers to hear. “I hate to ask, but may I borrow a computer—and does anyone know if this plane gets wifi? It’s been a while since I checked in.”
At the front of the plane, Camilla greeted the FBI and IRS agents as they boarded, handing each an “Indonesian cheat sheet”—simple, common phrases and their translations. “We have secure wifi access,” she said to DeShear, “and I can lend you an IRS laptop. The next meal opportunity is North Island Naval Air Station in San Diego.”
The agents passed back some protein bars. DeShear held up one of the slender green packages. “You guys really come prepared.”
“It’s a ten-hour flight.” Camilla said. “It pays to not have people getting stir crazy in such a small space. Try to learn some Indonesian phrases.”
Sliding down in his seat, DeShear reviewed the cheat sheet. “Is napping allowed?”
“It’s encouraged.” She patted the last agent on the back as he entered the plane, then took a step onto the stairs at the door. “Everybody, strap in. We’ll be wheels up as soon as I go thank the General for the use of his runway.”
DeShear peered through the tiny window. A gray, military-style ATV approached, carrying one large passenger and one skinny driver, both in khaki green uniforms. Camilla shook hands with the large man. After they chatted for a moment, the ATV drove off as quickly as it had appeared. Her business finished, Camilla climbed back on board the little jet.
She clapped the pilot on the back. “Steggy, let’s rock and roll.”
“Roger that, boss.” He flipped a few switches, and the monstrous egg-shaped engine outside DeShear’s window commenced its high-pitched whine.
* * * * *
Misty white cloud slivers zipped past DeShear’s window, barely visible at the jet’s cruising speed.
Good acoustics and awesome speed. Drug dealers know a good plane when they see one.
Lanaya typed on the laptop. A metal asset tag reading “Property of Internal Revenue Service” was glued near the left side of the keyboard.
“Paco,” Camilla called from the front of the plane. “Trade seats with me for a sec.”
The agent in front of DeShear got up and moved forward. Camilla took the seat and faced DeShear. “When we get to the facility, we’ll have anywhere from an eight-hour to twenty-hour advantage over anyone not already there. Executives in New York will hop on their corporate jet and hot foot it to wherever the action is, trying to keep us from finding their dirty little secrets. If what Lanaya says is true, we’ll be in the cat bird seat. If she’s wrong, or they moved the facility, we’ll still be less than ten hours away from anywhere it could be in the world.”
“It’s there,” Lanaya said. “I checked a few days ago. Even Angelus can’t move a genetics lab that fast. Not with what they’re doing.”
“Okay.” Camilla nodded. “When we land, you two
will be front and center with me. We’ll be moving fast, looking for the stuff that’s out of place.”
DeShear sat up. “Like what?”
“According to your client, the operation is too big to be easily hidden. They have a large group of people, and that means food, water, beds . . . showers and bathrooms, hopefully. The higher the head count, the harder it’ll be to hide.”
“My reports indicate they disguised it as a grade school,” Lanaya said.
“Makes sense. Nobody would question that.” Camilla leaned closer. “The real key is in the element of surprise. You start having IRS and FBI agents ask questions to a bunch of scared low-level employees, it’s a gold mine.”
“What if they request an attorney?” DeShear asked.
“Doesn’t matter. Lying to an FBI or IRS agent is a federal crime, and anyone who tries to hold out for an attorney runs the risk of not immediately complying with the demand letter—also a crime. Bottom line, if they don’t grant us full access to everything we want, somebody goes to jail.”
“Even though we’re not on U. S. soil?” Lanaya asked.
“Any American employees that lie or impede the audit will be tossed in the clink the second they set foot back in the good ol’ USA. That would include the board of directors, the executives, and any key project managers.”
“Wow.”
“Don’t mess with the IRS.” Camilla smiled. “We have FBI agents with us that are experts in human trafficking, and DEA agents who’ll dig up the money laundering links. You two will stick by my side and guide the investigators. Not everything will be on site, and Lanaya, you’ll know what’s missing. All I need is one on-site person in authority to open their mouth about the process, and we’re all set.”
“Pfft,” Lanaya huffed. “Ask them.”
Camilla cocked her head. “What?”
“Simply ask them,” Lanaya said. “Most of these geneticists are former or future professors. They love to brag about their work, especially to people who don’t seem to understand it. With a few of the right questions, they’ll kick into condescending lecture mode and tell you all about the place.”
